Nine Months
by LittleMissWolfie
Summary: Sherlock Holmes-Watson and her husband, Dr. John Watson, are expecting a baby. fem!Sherlock, Johnlock, post Reichenbach


**First story out of me for the new year!**

JOHN, I'M PREGNANT

It was a pleasant day at 221B Baker Street. It was a rare sunny day in London, traffic was surprisingly quiet, a nice spring breeze drifted through the open window and, last he'd checked, the blond Dr. John Watson found no cadaver parts in the fridge, microwave, oven, sink, or cupboards. His wife, Sherlock Holmes-Watson, had just wrapped up a case the previous evening, so she would be content for a few days more. Having a day off from his job at the clinic and awaiting Sherlock's awakening, John settled into his favorite chair with the morning newspaper and a cup of tea, fully intent on enjoying this pleasant day to its fullest.

An hour later, John was finished with his paper and decided to write a blog post. He was half way finished with the passage when he heard the groaning of the bed springs that signaled Sherlock rousing from her slumber. John didn't move, knowing how long it usually took for his wife to drag herself out of bed. However, he craned his neck around when he heard the frantic slap of bare feet on wood as Sherlock ran for the bathroom. "Sherlock," he called, "is something wrong?" When he got no answer, he tried again. "Sherlock? Love, are you okay?"

Then he heard it-the unmistakable sound of gagging.

John leaped to his feet and bounded for the bathroom to see his wife hunched over the toilet. Her long, curly, dark brown hair was still mussed from sleep and was falling out of her ponytail, creating a curtain between herself and John. The overlarge grey tee-shirt that used to belong to John in his military days slid further off her shoulder with every retch, revealing her creamy, pale skin. John quickly moved to pull Sherlock's hair away from her face as she vomited, rubbing her back a little to try to soothe her.

One minute later, Sherlock spit into the toilet and reached up to flush it before she turned to face John, her mirthful, colorless eyes meeting his own concern-ridden blue ones. "Morning," she drawled in that deep, husky voice of hers, wiping a bit of bile from her chin.

John groaned. "Sherlock, you can't just say 'morning' after vomiting like that." He gently hefted her up to her feet and brushed her bangs out of her eyes. "Go get dressed; I'm taking you to Bart's for an exam."

"'m fine, John!" she protested. "Besides, today's your first day off in ages. I'm sure that Bart's is the last place you'd like to be right now."

He sighed fondly at her. Putting his hands on her small shoulders, he steered her to their room as he said, "I'm a bit more worried about my ill wife than about avoiding my workplace. Now, are you going to be mature about this," he continued, standing in the doorway of their bedroom as to prevent her from escaping, "or do I have to dress you myself?"

Sherlock whined in a childish way. "But John, I'm really tired. Can't we just spend the day in bed?" As she made this suggestion, she moved closer to her husband, swishing her shapely hips under the fabric of the shirt, and began to trace one of her long, violinist's fingers down the planes of his clothed chest.

Had John been a weaker man, he'd have taken the alluring woman up on her offer. Instead, he gave her a stern look and caught her wrist. "If it really is nothing, like you say, then I'll have no qualms about locking us in our room and ravishing you until dawn. Get. Dressed."

Sherlock pouted, but did as her husband said.

* * *

Half an hour later, the couple sat in one of the examination rooms at St. Bartholomew's as hey waited for the doctor attending to them to return with the verdict. Sherlock, wearing a hospital gown and sitting on the examination table, was scowling at her husband as he innocently flipped through a gossip rag. "I'm telling you, you're overreacting."

"Counting on it, love," he said absentmindedly, turning a glossy page with a flick of his wrist.

"I already know what they're going to say," the detective insisted. "There's nothing wrong with me, John. What happened this morning was completely natural, as I was trying to tell you."

John closed the magazine and glanced at his wife. "Sherlock, there's nothing natural about emptying your stomach as violently as you did. You're a brilliant woman, love, but you're no doctor, so forgive me if I don't take your word for it."

"Traitor."

The doctor came back into the room shortly after, a middle aged woman with greying red hair and gleeful brown eyes. She grinned at Sherlock in a knowing way. "Would you like to tell him, Mrs. Watson?" the good doctor queried in a motherly voice.

Sherlock nodded and turned her head so that her gaze trapped John's. Her cheeks got a bit red, which he found both adorable and worrying. "John," she said, a slight tremor in her otherwise calm voice, "I'm pregnant."

For a moment, John thought he'd heard wrong. "Wha-huh?" he said intelligently. "Pregnant?"

Sherlock rolled her eyes. "Yes, John. You know, your child is currently growing in my womb as a result of-"

John didn't let her finish the sentence. He enveloped her in his arms gleefully, torn between crying and laughing in joy. "Oh, God, you're pregnant! I'm going to be a father!"

Despite herself, Sherlock felt her eyes grow hot as well as she returned her husband's embrace. "I was going to tell you at dinner tonight-I had it all planned out and everything, you prat, but you just had to be all concerned and you ruined it."

The doctor smiled at them and quietly slipped out of the room to give them a bit of privacy.


End file.
